


Conviction

by nextraordinaire



Series: Something Blue [4]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Established Relationship, M/M, Star Wars References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2018-02-21 04:39:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2455028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nextraordinaire/pseuds/nextraordinaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles and Erik discuss something they should have talked about a long time ago, but also about what matters the most at the end of the day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conviction

**Author's Note:**

> Fourth part! Expect parentheses. Beta is the adorable septicwheelbarrow, and so, all the remaining mistakes are mine and mine alone.

Snow lay in heavy drapes over the trees and roads and the grocery bag handles dig into Charles’ hands as he drags himself up the stairs to Erik’s floor. For the third time in a month, the elevator is out, and Charles has definitely not been spending as much time as he should have at the gym, the trek upwards leaving him a bit winded and unfocused (vision swimming, if he’s this out of shape it’s pathetic, are the bags really that heavy).

And that’s the only reason he slips, that the emotions coming from the apartment hit him as hard as they actually do.

First, there is Erik’s mind, falling in upon itself like a house of cards (worry, fear, anxiety up through the roof, betrayal, anger, that white-hot rage wrapping it all up, scorching hot) and buzzing beside it, just within reach (so alike it’s scary) is what can only be Edie.

Charles stops.

He has the keys in his pocket and the teeth of it are jagged between his fingers. He can hear the shouting now (no words, too muffled through the thick walls, thick door) and on some level he knows he should stay out of this, but at the same time he can’t just stay out here (the pull, subconsciously, is too great to ignore).

He unlocks the door, acts as if he hasn't heard a thing.

“I’m home!”

The voices from the kitchen die immediately. And then, Edie (voice strong even while whispering, calm and authorial, wise alpha female who answers to no one but herself).

“Are you going to tell him?”

Silence.

“You are behaving like a child. You tell him, and you tell him now.”

“It’s none of your business.”

“It very much is! I will not see –”

Charles is in the doorway before he even knows how he got there.

Both of them look up. Erik, still sitting by the rickety kitchen table (one moment, one comment from springing out of his seat) looks murderous and Edie, standing by the stove steams of frustration like a hotplate drenched in water.

“Hello, Charles,” she says when she sees him, voice soft and pleasant (her eyes hard and determined as her mind). “I think Erik has something to tell you.”

“Mama.” The word is short (curt, razor sharp). “It doesn't matter.”

Not missing a beat, Edie rivets her eyes on him (so similar it’s uncanny). “No, Erik. It does matter. Tell him.”

Erik’s face is utterly blank (carved stone except for his ticking jaw) as he stands up. “You have _no_ right.”

“ _You_ have no right to hide it for so long! Not from me and certainly not from Charles! You are only making it worse!”

Erik glares at her, (rage like a wildfire, consuming everything in it vicinity) then stomps by Charles in the doorway (dragging his fingers along his arm), rips his coat of the hanger and slams the door shut, making it rattle. The door is thick enough that you can’t hear him going down the stairs, but the cloud of anger leaves a sour taste on the back of Charles’ tongue.

Edie drags her hands over her face (greying temples) and sighs, and Charles crosses his arms over his chest.

(After the first heat they’d spent together, Erik had started to act very odd. More often than not, Charles would find him just staring into thin air, unmoving for hours. He’d only leave the apartment for work and runs; slept through whole weekends when he usually was up and dressed before Charles had even started to think about waking up.)

“I take it’s something important?”

Edie looks up at him, before her eyes flit out the window with a dejected smile.

“I’m just so shocked he hasn't told you already, to be honest. It’s old news.”

Charles nods (nausea prickling at the back of his throat) and starts to put the groceries in the fridge.

(Erik has a meticulous system that Charles has tried to duplicate for many years. But whenever he tries to arrange the items in an attempt to spare Erik of the work, he can feel Erik’s agitation at every possibly misplaced item like a tangible itch in his nostrils. And as soon as he turns his back, even if just for a moment, everything is rearranged anyways. Sometimes, he wonders why he still bothers.)

“He told me you’d gotten engaged.”

Despite the tension, warmth spreads from his stomach and Charles can’t help but smile (smoothing the pad of his thumb over the perfectly sculpted band on his finger).

“We did.”

The corners of Edie’s eyes crinkle. “He’s very happy about that, you know.”

“Me too,” Charles says (the nausea breaking and something sweet lacing around his molars).

“So this is not about that, so don’t fret, love,” Edie sends him a fond look, smoothing her hands over her skirt. “And I do approve. So glad he found you, Charles. You mellow him out so nicely.”

Charles closes the fridge door, turning wholly towards her. “I’m just happy he chose to stay,” he says, meaning every word (from the beginning, it had been Erik’s choice, always).

“You really are good at giving him space,” Edie muses. “Is he very angry with me?”

Reaching out, Charles takes a cursory inventory of Erik’s current state of mind. The density of his anger has kindled down to an ember, but the frustration is growing in time with the ash of his cigarette. There’s also the ever-present darkness at the back that Charles has not dared touch in seven years – not even when it has grown into a mountain in the last few weeks.

“More frustrated, to be honest,” is what he tells her (the cold of the sink a blessing against his palms).

Edie huffs, shaking her head, amused. “Go figure. Mule-headed, that’s what he is.”

Charles looks over to where Erik stands below them, smoke sailing towards the grey snow-laden sky (towards the sea on the other side of the road). Even from the window, the tension in his shoulders is visible, and Charles’ eyes catch on it for a moment, like a glitch in a video before he returns to himself.

Turning around, he then picks up the kettle, fills it and puts it on the stove with a clatter.

“It’s nothing dangerous, is it?”

If his voice is strained, Edie doesn't say anything about it. “No. But he needs to get that thing off his mind.”

Charles nods and takes the milk out of the fridge again, despite just placing it in there. The kettle whistles (a needle piercing through the tension’s thick skin).

Charles doesn’t move.

“You go and talk to him. I’ll take care of this.”

Breathing out a _thanks_ , Charles leaves everything before heading out in the hallway; grabbing his coat and snatching a stray muffler that has fallen to the floor in his haste.

Outside, the wind from the sea bites sharply at his face and he sticks his hands in his pockets. The sidewalk is asleep just like the nearby trees and the slow sway of the twigs is the only thing that moves. The snow creaks under Charles’ boots (quiet, slow and almost menacing in its nostalgia) as he comes up beside Erik.

Their elbows brush when thin flakes of snow start to fall towards the ground again. Erik lets his cigarette fall as well.

“Go on.” His voice croaks like an old door as he grinds the cigarette glow into the white-covered stone with his heel. “Ask.”

“If you don’t want to tell me, you don’t have to,” Charles offers, quiet (insides roaring). “You know that.”

Erik sighs, grimacing his way to a smile. He makes it halfway, landing on some bleak, evasive version Charles hasn't seen in a while.

“Of course,” he then says, turning his head. His eyes are so tense (skin around them straining). Charles can’t help but swallow.

“Good.”

Without his cigarette, Erik starts looking around for distractions, following a passing car until it has disappeared around the corner and the snow starts to settle into its tracks. “It’s true, though,” he says after a moment, harsh, (so quiet Charles almost have to look into his mind to hear the word), “I can’t keep it from you any longer.”

Charles takes his hands from out of his pockets. The air has gone thin and he reaches out and takes Erik’s naked hand in his. It is surprisingly warm and the grip around Charles’ finger is strong and almost desperate, like he’ll drown without it.

Erik clears his throat, but his voice is still hoarse when he says, “Do you want children?”

Charles snaps his head up.

(He knows he hasn't been alone in thinking it. To care for someone that is theirs and theirs alone. They have each other and that is enough, but sometimes, Charles can’t help but think about how it would be – what the middle ground would be. Was his or Erik’s odd-coloured eyes the dominant trait, his patient streak or Erik’s mule-headedness? It’s stupid, and he knows it, but he won’t deny it. There is no reason to fight; the longing will sit like a light ticking in his chest nonetheless.)

“Yes. Maybe not right now – we’re still young – but sometime in the future, yes, I think so.”

In his hand, Erik’s fingers are suddenly cold and stiff. When they start to pull away, Charles tightens his grip by reflex.

“Why do you ask?”

Seeming to steel himself, Erik says, “If it’s that important to you, you should –”

“No!” Charles spins around until he’s facing Erik, his hands flying up to his face, gripping it tightly. “I’m more than willing to let it go. It’s not the world to me. Far from it.”

Under his hand, Erik’s jaw twitches and Charles desperately wants to shake him. ”If you don’t want to, it’s perfectly fine with me. God knows, I’ll give you anything you want, and refrain if you don’t.”

“Some would say that’s not entirely healthy, you know,” Erik says, making another attempt at that evasive smile. It’s even bleaker this time and Charles almost reaches out to help him get there, push for it with a gentle nudge. But he knows better than to intervene. The mountain in Erik’s mind is still there, hanging off his shoulders and weighing him down and the only way to get to it is to let Erik lead the way.

Charles will let him, even if it makes his stomach knot like ear buds in a pocket.

“ – not that I don’t want to.”

Charles almost drops his hands.

“What do you mean?” It comes out more like breath than anything solid. Erik swallows (jaw working, the hum of his thoughts increasing in pitch until it almost hurts).

It’s almost inaudible when he finally speaks. “It’s – that I can’t.”

“What?”

“I said I _can’t_ ,” Erik repeats, spitting, and Charles wishes he knew what to say.

In his Erik’s head, a croaky voice then continues, mumbling, _too narrow, there’s no space for anything would have to shatter something it’ll kill me_. “No matter how- how it’s done.” 

Charles lets his hands fall, and for a moment, he doesn't know what to do. He simply doesn't know what to say. There are so many options, each more potentially devastating than the last and he can’t say any of them. Erik’s mouth is tight and his eyes are trained on Charles’ face. There’s a hard kind of determination in them, like iron, like that on a soldier, like –

Like he thinks Charles might leave.

It hits him so hard he almost gasps. Inside, the ticking suddenly gets louder, closer to a bomb than a clock.

(Until he’d held Kurt for the first time, Raven blue and beaming from across him, Charles had never seen it as a future. It was enough, but after then and there it suddenly wasn’t. Raven saying, still a bit white around the gills, “Funny thing is, he wasn’t planned at all, you know? But here he is, my little prince,” before she took her son back, letting him grip her finger tightly.)

He sees Erik’s eyes widen slightly, but he ignores that. Instead, he takes a deep breath and says the only thing he can say.

“You know, it doesn't matter.”

He hates himself for how weak it sounds, when it’s the truest thing he’ll ever say.

Erik scoffs. “Don’t be stupid. I've seen how you are with Kurt.”

_you’ll want something like that someday and i can’t give it to you don’t you understand_

Charles tries to swallow, but his mouth is so dry. “There are options.”

(As in others that were far more dependent and deserving of what they had to share. But the little girl – he’d always envisioned a daughter, somehow – with soft dark hair and freckles but still raw-boned, ruthless and lithe with a wide smile bright as a beacon, would never meld them together like an unbreakable link that would outlive them both.)

“It’s not about that,” Erik tries, out loud this time. Though he may be right, Charles shakes his head.

“It doesn't change anything – I’ll be here, just like always.”

Erik’s eyes spark in a split-second version of rage, before he scoffs again. “You say that now.”

“It doesn't make it any less true.”

“You can’t know that!” Erik bursts (something white burning within him).

Feeling an uncharacteristic flare of anger and annoyance, Charles rivets his eyes on Erik, staring hard until he sees Erik’s shoulders start to rise in defence.

“I asked you to _marry_ me. That means I promise to be here, with you, forever. If you don’t believe that, I don’t know what I should believe either.”

Something in that makes Erik deflate, his eyes falling to the ground. “I didn't doubt you then,” he says, suddenly quiet.

“But you do now?”

When Erik doesn't reply, Charles tightens his upper lip and slides an arm around his waist (so narrow, has always been too narrow, almost fragile but still not at all). He’s planning on saying something, anything, when Erik shifts his weight slightly, leaning his body into Charles’.

It’s not much, but it’s certainly more than enough. As so many other things of theirs are.

“I love you,” Charles says.

He gets no answer at first. Not a spoken one, at least. Only Erik’s white-bitten fingertips reaching out to tuck a lock of his hair behind his ear, continuing down the side of his throat to pluck at a stray thread on his muffler. Charles curls his awareness like a thread of yarn around the frays of Erik’s mind (which is less like desert blast this time around) and waits.

(Usually, he never gets an answer apart from a kiss to the forehead, a ruffling of his hair and something whispered from the depths of Erik’s mind. He learned to live with it ages ago, and why fix it if it isn't broken?)

Closing his eyes, Charles simply leans into the light touch and almost misses when Erik says, with all the conviction he was lacking before,

“I know.”

Charles stops. Looking up into Erik’s eyes, bewildered, he pokes a bit deeper into Erik’s mind. Instead of the usual tint that laces Erik’s half-muted declarations, Charles is now met by a very familiar scene from what looks like a movie he’s seen one time too many.

He turns around. “Did you just Han Solo me?” he says, mouth twitching, because it’s quite endearing, after all.

And Erik’s mouth starts to curl (unfolding like a paper flower in water, slow but inevitable) despite the rims of his eyes still being a bit red. “I did. Sorry.”

For all the silence still feels pink and raw, Charles decides to play along.

“Absolutely, Your Worship. Look, I had everything under control until you led us down here,” he says.

Predictably, Erik’s smile widens into something slightly more normal. It’s subdued (delicate and a little frail) but it’s way better than that watered one from before. “It could be worse.”

“It is worse,” Charles cities, grinning, as he turns towards Erik, invading his space (falling into that hollow that’s been carved out for him) to lean up and kiss him.

It’s something almost tender about the way he still, even now, has to stand on his tiptoes to reach up to Erik’s lips (one hand clutching Erik’s hair under his knitted hat to not topple over) that reminds him of college years and all the firsts they explored. Breathing in, second-hand flashes of rain and warm salt swells in his nose and the way Erik’s hands clasp around the small of his back (holding him still, lifting him up) turns into the seal of a contract stating that they are, after all, okay.

The passing of car make them break apart, catching their breaths in the chilliness. For a moment, they just stare at each other. The tip of Erik’s nose is childishly red and Charles is almost certain his ears are going to fall off if he doesn't get a hat on in the near future.

He clears his throat, tugging mindlessly at the lapels of Erik’s coat. “So. I made tea.”

“Of course you did,” Erik says.

“I left your mother with it.”

“She’ll be fine, Charles. She’s made tea before.”

“I know, but I think she lets the tea bags in too long –“

At that, Erik just shakes his head again and bumps his shoulder into Charles’. “Come on then, mister pedantic.”

“Like you’re one to talk,” Charles says after walking the short distance back to the door.

Erik stops in the doorway, letting snow into the lobby. “Did you put in the groceries in the fridge?” he then says, eyebrows raised.

“I couldn't just let the milk stand outside and go bad!” Charles defends himself, sticking his chin out like a little kid as he starts marching up the stairs.

Erik just looks at him, before shaking his head, smiling. “Okay.”

Charles stops halfway up the first flight. “Really?”

“Yeah. It’s okay.”

Something in the way he shrugs, like nothing has changed, makes Charles stick out his hand and grab him again – hauling him in until they’re flush, height difference erased and foreheads almost touching.

Gently, Charles cups a hand around Erik’s neck, steady but light and says, with all conviction he can manage,

“Yes, we are.”


End file.
